


Snippets

by wolfheartedgirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mentions of past abuse, Other, Random Ficlets, Rape/Non-con References, Smut, trigger warnings for abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:52:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfheartedgirl/pseuds/wolfheartedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small, one-off ficlets and snippets of larger fics in the works. Largely unbeta'd; open to concrit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindred Spirits

They are a mass of sweaty limbs on the sleeping fur. It is the only soft thing in the room. All the rest is hard. Hearts like ice. His bony hips between her thighs. Her fingernails like daggers in the flesh over his spine.

Even his beard is sharp; too short to be soft. It grates her palms like a boar’s bristles as she strokes the gaunt and unmarked cheek. She pushes his chest. Rolls him onto his back. Impales herself so deeply it hurts. 

He keens like a wounded animal and it cuts through the roar of blood in her ears.

When his eyes flutter open she sees what was there before wasn’t passion-darkness… just darkness. A void as terrible and dark and inescapable as the one that ate her own soul so long ago.

“What was her name?” She asks as she watches him gather his clothes.

“Sansa,” Sandor pulls on his shirt. Takes up his sword belt. Opens the door. “Her name was Sansa.”

Then he is gone.


	2. Lupa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extremely AU ficlet. ASOIAF meets Gladiator.

_There was a dream that was Rome…_

Lupa. That is what they call her. Mother Wolf. Milk of humanity.

Romulus and Remus lived on the milk of a wolf.

Sansa lives on eggshells.

Each step is brittle. Careful. Fearful. One wrong step and she falls onto the razors of his anger.

Her husband. Emperor. Jailer.

In public she is the Wolf Queen. The mob screams her name and bards sing of her beauty. She sits in the coliseum for the games at the side of her husband who is golden and perfect and evil and _madmadmadmad_ .

She watches passively. Silently. Stoic as her golden lord has another commoner stripped naked and wrapped in the fresh skin of an ox. Praetorians will force him to run in circles. The skin will dry and suck the moisture from the man’s body like a lord supping sweet wine. It will be a slow death.   Her Emperor likes it so.

The faces of the dead do not seem peaceful. Her husband shows her to her father’s head mounted like an insect on a pin. There is no peace in death, she realizes. Her father went to his grave with a scream of fear frozen on his face. The crows have pecked his eyes and ears and still he screams. Silently, though, so that is something.

_This is not it…_

  At night she hears a voice, steel on stone, comforting as a mother’s song. W _hat is an emperor but madness made flesh, little bird?_


	3. To Write Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [These Scars We Wear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/519725/chapters/918391). Go and read!

He struggles with the letters. Reading and writing were never his strengths. His sword was always his pen. Blood his ink. Now in this little cell on this little isle he struggles to put thoughts to words. Each letter is started and finished dozens of times, paper crumpled and crushed and thrown to the fire over and over. He struggles. Writes. Drinks weak ale. Curses himself for a lovestruck idiot. Thinks. Struggles and writes again.

When the first is finally finished he feels as though he’s scaled the Wall. Defeated the Great Other with his own two hands and a dull tourney blade. He reads it through only once before rolling it and wrapping it with a leather string; if he reads it too many times he’ll focus again on how completely inadequate he is at this and throw it away.

After the first few, they start to come faster. Not easier. Just faster. He’s faster now at working through the problems. Finding the right words. The first time he’d had to ask Elder Brother for help on what to say had nearly killed him. Better a thousand Blackwaters than asking the monk for a better word than ‘fuck.’

He curses and fights and fidgets. Throws letters away. Throws pens and ink cross his cell more than once. His fingers seem permanently stained black and his hand feels constantly cramped around a pen even when empty.

A year and a half, he writes. Five-and-ten letters in a neat little bundle. The leather string binding them old and worn and stretched. He had no seal. No yellow wax and three-dog signet to stamp it with. Wouldn’t have used it if he did. These are not those types of letters. Not declarations of courtly love or grandiose proposals.

They are penance.

They are apologies.

They are all he knows of love and forgiveness and tenderness turned into black lines on thin parchment. 

He hopes they will be enough to say what he cannot.

 


End file.
